The Curtain lifts on a place that is dark, savefor a shaft of light from below which comes up through an opentrap-door in the floor. This slants up and strikes the long leavesand the huge brilliant blossom of a strange plant whose twistedstem projects from right front. Nothing is seen except this plantand its shadow. A violent wind is heard. A moment later a buzzer.It buzzes once long and three short. Silence. Again the buzzer.Then from below—his shadow blocking the light, comesANTHONY, a rugged man past middle life;—he emerges fromthe stairway into the darkness of the room. Is dimly seen taking upa phone.
ANTHONY: Yes, Miss Claire?—I'll see. (he brings athermometer to the stairway for light, looks sharply, then returnsto the phone) It's down to forty-nine. The plants are indanger—(with great relief and approval) Oh, that'sfine! (hangs up the receiver) Fine!
(He goes back down the stairway, closing thetrap-door upon himself, and the curtain is drawn upon darkness andwind. It opens a moment later on the greenhouse in the sunshine ofa snowy morning. The snow piled outside is at times blown throughthe air. The frost has made patterns on the glass as if—asPlato would have it—the patterns inherent in abstract natureand behind all life had to come out, not only in the creative heatwithin, but in the creative cold on the other side of the glass.And the wind makes patterns of sound around the glasshouse.
The back wall is low; the glass roof slopes sharply up. There isan outside door, a little toward the right. From outside two stepslead down to it. At left a glass partition and a door into theinner room. One sees a little way into this room. At right there isno dividing wall save large plants and vines, a narrow aislebetween shelves of plants leads off.
This is not a greenhouse where plants are being displayed, northe usual workshop for the growing of them, but a place forexperiment with plants, a laboratory.
At the back grows a strange vine. It is arresting rather thanbeautiful. It creeps along the low wall, and one branch gets alittle way up the glass. You might see the form of a cross in it,if you happened to think it that way. The leaves of this vine arenot the form that leaves have been. They are at once repellent andsignificant.
ANTHONY is at work preparing soil—mixing, sifting. Asthe wind tries the door he goes anxiously to the thermometer, nodsas if reassured and returns to his work. The buzzer sounds. Hestarts to answer the telephone, remembers something, halts andlistens sharply. It does not buzz once long and three short. Thenhe returns to his work. The buzzer goes on and on in impatientjerks which mount in anger. Several times ANTHONY is almostcompelled by this insistence, but the thing that holds him back isstronger. At last, after a particularly mad splutter, to whichANTHONY longs to make retort, the buzzer gives it up.ANTHONY goes on preparing soil.
A moment later the glass door swings violently in, snow blowingin, and also MR HARRY ARCHER, wrapped in a rug.)
ANTHONY: Oh, please close the door, sir.
HARRY: Do you think I'm not trying to? (he holds it open tosay this)
ANTHONY: But please do. This stormy air is not good forthe plants.
HARRY: I suppose it's just the thing for me! Now, what do youmean, Anthony, by not answering the phone when I buzz for you?
ANTHONY: Miss Claire—Mrs Archer told me not to.
HARRY: Told you not to answer me?
ANTHONY: Not you especially—nobody but her.
HARRY: Well, I like her nerve—and yours.
ANTHONY: You see, she thought it took my mind from my work to beinterrupted when I'm out here. And so it does. So she buzzes oncelong and—Well, she buzzes her way, and all otherbuzzing—
HARRY: May buzz.
ANTHONY: (nodding gravely) She thought it would be betterfor the flowers.
HARRY: I am not a flower—true, but I too need a littleattention—and a little heat. Will you please tell me why thehouse is frigid?
ANTHONY: Miss Claire ordered all the heat turned out here,(patiently explaining it to MISS CLAIRE's speechlesshusband) You see the roses need a great deal of heat.
HARRY: (reading the thermometer) The roses haveseventy-three I have forty-five.
ANTHONY: Yes, the roses need seventy-three.
HARRY: Anthony, this is an outrage!
ANTHONY: I think it is myself; when you consider what we paidfor the heating plant—but as long as it isdefective—Why, Miss Claire would never have done what she hasif she hadn't looked out for her plants in just such ways as this.Have you forgotten that Breath of Life is about to flower?
HARRY: And where's my breakfast about to flower?—that'swhat I want to know.
ANTHONY: Why, Miss Claire got up at five o'clock to order theheat turned off from the house.
HARRY: I see you admire her vigilance.
ANTHONY: Oh, I do. (fervently) I do. Harm was near, andthat woke her up.
HARRY: And what about the harm to—(tapping hischest) Do roses get pneumonia?
ANTHONY: Oh, yes—yes, indeed they do. Why, Mr Archer, lookat Miss Claire herself. Hasn't she given her heat to the roses?
HARRY: (pulling the rug around him, preparing for theblizzard) She has the fire within.
ANTHONY: (delighted) Now isn't that true! How well yousaid it. (with a glare for this appreciation, HARRY opensthe door. It blows away from him) Please do close the door!
HARRY: (furiously) You think it is the aim of my life tohold it open?
ANTHONY: (getting hold of it) Growing things need an eventemperature, (while saying this he gets the man out into thesnow)
(ANTHONY consults the thermometer, not as pleasedthis time as he was before. He then looks minutely at two of theplants—one is a rose, the other a flower without a namebecause it has not long enough been a flower. Peers into the heartsof them. Then from a drawer under a shelf, takes two paper bags,puts one over each of these flowers, closing them down at thebottom. Again the door blows wildly in, also HATTIE, a maidwith a basket.)
ANTHONY: What do you mean—blowing in here like this? MrsArcher has ordered—
HATTIE: Mr Archer has ordered breakfast served here, (sheuncovers the basket and takes out an electric toaster)
ANTHONY: Breakfast—here? Eat—here?Where plants grow?
HATTIE: The plants won't poison him, will they? (at a loss toknow what to do with things, she puts the toaster under the strangevine at the back, whose leaves lift up against the glass which hasfrost leaves on the outer side)
ANTHONY: (snatching it away) You—you think you cancook eggs under the Edge Vine?
HATTIE: I guess Mr Archer's eggs are as important as a vine. Iguess my work's as important as yours.
ANTHONY: There's a million people like you—and like MrArcher. In all the world there is only one Edge Vine.
HATTIE: Well, maybe one's enough. It don't look like nothin',anyhow.
ANTHONY: And you've not got the wit to know that that's why it'sthe Edge Vine.
HATTIE: You want to look out, Anthony. You talk nutty. Everybodysays so.
ANTHONY: Miss Claire don't say so.
HATTIE: No, because she's—
ANTHONY: You talk too much!
(Door opens, admitting HARRY; afterlooking around for the best place to eat breakfast, moves a box ofearth from the table.)
HARRY: Just give me a hand, will you, Hattie?
(They bring it to the open space and he andHATTIE arrange breakfast things, HATTIE with triumphantglances at the distressed ANTHONY)
ANTHONY: (deciding he must act) Mr Archer, this is notthe place to eat breakfast!
HARRY: Dead wrong, old boy. The place that has heat is the placeto eat breakfast. (to HATTIE) Tell the othergentlemen—I heard Mr Demming up, and Mr Edgeworthy, if heappears, that as long as it is such a pleasant morning, we'rehaving breakfast outside. To the conservatory for coffee.
(HATTIE giggles, is leaving.)
And let's see, have we got everything? (takes the one shaker,shakes a little pepper on his hand. Looks in vain for the othershaker) And tell Mr Demming to bring the salt.
ANTHONY: But Miss Claire will be very angry.
HARRY: I am very angry. Did I choose to eat my breakfast at theother end of a blizzard?
ANTHONY: (an exclamation of horror at the thermometer)The temperature is falling. I must report. (he punches thebuzzer, takes up the phone) Miss Claire? It is Anthony. Aterrible thing has happened. Mr Archer—what? Yes, a terriblething.—Yes, it is about Mr Archer.—No—no, notdead. But here. He is here. Yes, he is well, he seems well, but heis eating his breakfast. Yes, he is having breakfast served outhere—for himself, and the other gentlemen are to cometoo.—Well, he seemed to be annoyed because the heat had beenturned off from the house. But the door keeps opening—thisstormy wind blowing right over the plants. The temperature hasalready fallen.—Yes, yes. I thought you would want tocome.
(ANTHONY opens the trap-door and goes below.HARRY looks disapprovingly down into this openness at his feet,returns to his breakfast. ANTHONY comes up, bearing abox.)
HARRY: (turning his face away) Phew! What a smell.
ANTHONY: Yes. Fertilizer has to smell.
HARRY: Well, it doesn't have to smell up my breakfast!
ANTHONY: (with a patient sense of order) The smellbelongs here. (he and the smell go to the inner room)
(The outer door opens just enough to admitCLAIRE—is quickly closed. With CLAIRE in a roomanother kind of aliveness is there.)
CLAIRE: What are you doing here?
HARRY: Getting breakfast. (all the while doing so)
CLAIRE: I'll not have you in my place!
HARRY: If you take all the heat then you have to take me.
CLAIRE: I'll show you how I have to take you. (with her handsbegins scooping upon him the soil ANTHONY hasprepared)
HARRY: (jumping up, laughing, pinning down her arms, puttinghis arms around her) Claire—be decent. What harm do I dohere?
CLAIRE: You pull down the temperature.
HARRY: Not after I'm in.
CLAIRE: And you told Tom and Dick to come and make ituneven.
HARRY: Tom and Dick are our guests. We can't eat where it's warmand leave them to eat where it's cold.
CLAIRE: I don't see why not.
HARRY: You only see what you want to see.
CLAIRE: That's not true. I wish it were. No; no, I don't either.(she is disturbed—that troubled thing which rises fromwithin, from deep, and takes CLAIRE. She turns to the EdgeVine, examines. Regretfully to ANTHONY, who has come in witha plant) It's turning back, isn't it?
ANTHONY: Can you be sure yet, Miss Claire?
CLAIRE: Oh yes—it's had its chance. It doesn't want tobe—what hasn't been.
HARRY: (who has turned at this note in her voice. Speakskindly) Don't take it so seriously, Claire. (CLAIRElaughs)
CLAIRE: No, I suppose not. But it does matter—andwhy should I pretend it doesn't, just because I've failed withit?
HARRY: Well, I don't want to see it get you—it's notimportant enough for that.
CLAIRE: (in her brooding way) Anything is importantenough for that—if it's important at all. (to thevine) I thought you were out, but you're—going backhome.
ANTHONY: But you're doing it this time, Miss Claire. When Breathof Life opens—and we see its heart—
(CLAIRE looks toward the inner room. Because ofintervening plants they do not see what is seen from thefront—a plant like caught motion, and of a greatertransparency than plants have had. Its leaves, like waves thatcurl, close around a heart that is not seen. This plant stands byitself in what, because of the arrangement of things about it, is ahidden place. But nothing is between it and the light.)
CLAIRE: Yes, if the heart has (a little laugh) held itsown, then Breath of Life is alive in its otherness. But Edge Vineis running back to what it broke out of.
HARRY: Come, have some coffee, Claire.
(ANTHONY returns to the inner room, the outerdoor opens. DICK is hurled in.)
CLAIRE: (going to the door, as he gasps for breath beforeclosing it) How dare you make my temperature uneven! (sheshuts the door and leans against it)
DICK: Is that what I do?
(A laugh, a look between them, which is held intosignificance.)
HARRY: (who is not facing them) Where's the salt?
DICK: Oh, I fell down in the snow. I must have left the saltwhere I fell. I'll go back and look for it.
CLAIRE: And change the temperature? We don't need salt.
HARRY: You don't need salt, Claire. But we eat eggs.
CLAIRE: I must tell you I don't like the idea of any food beingeaten here, where things have their own way to go. Please eat aslittle as possible, and as quickly.
HARRY: A hostess calculated to put one at one's ease.
CLAIRE: (with no ill-nature) I care nothing about yourease. Or about Dick's ease.
DICK: And no doubt that's what makes you so fascinating ahostess.
CLAIRE: Was I a fascinating hostess last night, Dick? (softlysings) 'Oh, night of love—' (from the Barcorole of'Tales of Hoffman')
HARRY: We've got to have salt.
(He starts for the door. CLAIRE slips inahead of him, locks it, takes the key. He marches off,right.)
CLAIRE: (calling after him) That end's always locked.
DICK: Claire darling, I wish you wouldn't say those startlingthings. You do get away with it, but I confess it gives me ashock—and really, it's unwise.
CLAIRE: Haven't you learned that the best place to hide is inthe truth? (as HARRY returns) Why won't you believeme, Harry, when I tell you the truth—about doors beinglocked?
HARRY: Claire, it's selfish of you to keep us from eating saltjust because you don't eat salt.
CLAIRE: (with one of her swift changes) Oh, Harry! Tryyour egg without salt. Please—please try it without salt!(an intensity which seems all out of proportion to thesubject)
HARRY: An egg demands salt.
CLAIRE: 'An egg demands salt.' Do you know, Harry, why you aresuch an unseasoned person? 'An egg demands salt.'
HARRY: Well, it doesn't always get it.
CLAIRE: But your spirit gets no lift from the salt withheld.
HARRY: Not an inch of lift. (going back to hisbreakfast)
CLAIRE: And pleased—so pleased with itself, for getting nolift. Sure, it is just the right kind of spirit—because itgets no lift. (more brightly) But, Dick, you must have triedyour egg without salt.
DICK: I'll try it now. (he goes to the breakfasttable)
CLAIRE: You must have tried and tried things. Isn't that the wayone leaves the normal and gets into the byways of perversion?
HARRY: Claire.
DICK: (pushing back his egg) If so, I prefer to wait forthe salt.
HARRY: Claire, there is a limit.
CLAIRE: Precisely what I had in mind. To perversion too there isa limit. So—the fortifications are unassailable. If one everdoes get out, I suppose it is—quite unexpectedly, andperhaps—a bit terribly.
HARRY: Get out where?
CLAIRE: (with a bright smile) Where you, darling, willnever go.
HARRY: And from which you, darling, had better beat it.
CLAIRE: I wish I could. (to herself) No—no I don'teither
(Again this troubled thing turns her to theplant. She puts by themselves the two which ANTHONY coveredwith paper bags. Is about to remove these papers. HARRYstrikes a match.)
CLAIRE: (turning sharply) You can't smoke here. Theplants are not used to it.
HARRY: Then I should think smoking would be just the thing forthem.
CLAIRE: There is design.
HARRY: (to DICK) Am I supposed to be answered? I nevercan be quite sure at what moment I am answered.
(They both watch CLAIRE, who has uncoveredthe plants and is looking intently into the flowers. From a drawershe takes some tools. Very carefully gives the rose pollen to anunfamiliar flower—rather wistfully unfamiliar, which standsabove on a small shelf near the door of the inner room.)
DICK: What is this you're doing, Claire?
CLAIRE: Pollenizing. Crossing for fragrance.
DICK: It's all rather mysterious, isn't it?
HARRY: And Claire doesn't make it any less so.
CLAIRE: Can I make life any less mysterious?
HARRY: If you know what you are doing, why can't you tellDick?
DICK: Never mind. After all, why should I be told? (he turnsaway)
(At that she wants to tell him. Helpless, as onewho cannot get across a stream, starts uncertainly.)
CLAIRE: I want to give fragrance to Breath of Life (faces theroom beyond the wall of glass)—the flower I have createdthat is outside what flowers have been. What has gone out shouldbring fragrance from what it has left. But no definite fragrance,no limiting enclosing thing. I call the fragrance I am trying tocreate Reminiscence. (her hand on the pot of the wistful littleflower she has just given pollen) Reminiscent of the rose, theviolet, arbutus—but a new thing—itself. Breath of Lifemay be lonely out in what hasn't been. Perhaps some day I can giveit reminiscence.
DICK: I see, Claire.
CLAIRE: I wonder if you do.
HARRY: Now, Claire, you're going to be gay to-day, aren't you?These are Tom's last couple of days with us.
CLAIRE: That doesn't make me especially gay.
HARRY: Well, you want him to remember you as yourself, don'tyou?
CLAIRE: I would like him to. Oh—I would like him to!
HARRY: Then be amusing. That's really you, isn't it, Dick?
DICK: Not quite all of her—I should say.
CLAIRE: (gaily) Careful, Dick. Aren't you indiscreet?Harry will be suspecting that I am your latest strumpet.
HARRY: Claire! What language you use! A person knowing you onlyby certain moments could never be made to believe you are a refinedwoman.
CLAIRE: True, isn't it, Dick?
HARRY: It would be a good deal of a lark to let them listen inat times—then tell them that here is the flower of NewEngland!
CLAIRE: Well, if this is the flower of New England, then thehalf has never been told.
DICK: About New England?
CLAIRE: I thought I meant that. Perhaps I meant—aboutme.
HARRY: (going on with his own entertainment) Explain thatthis is what came of the men who made the laws that made NewEngland, that here is the flower of those gentlemen of culturewho—
DICK: Moulded the American mind!
CLAIRE: Oh! (it is pain)
HARRY: Now what's the matter?
CLAIRE: I want to get away from them!
HARRY: Rest easy, little one—you do.
CLAIRE: I'm not so sure—that I do. But it can be done! Weneed not be held in forms moulded for us. There isoutness—and otherness.
HARRY: Now, Claire—I didn't mean to start anythingserious.
CLAIRE: No; you never mean to do that. I want to break it up! Itell you, I want to break it up! If it were all in pieces, we'd be(a little laugh) shocked to aliveness (toDICK)—wouldn't we? There would be strange new comingstogether—mad new comings together, and we would know what itis to be born, and then we might know—that we are. Smash it.(her hand is near an egg) As you'd smash an egg. (shepushes the egg over the edge of the table and leans over and looks,as over a precipice)
HARRY: (with a sigh) Well, all you've smashed is the egg,and all that amounts to is that now Tom gets no egg. So that'sthat.
CLAIRE: (with difficulty, drawing herself back from thefascination of the precipice) You think I can't smash anything?You think life can't break up, and go outside what it was? Becauseyou've gone dead in the form in which you found yourself, you thinkthat's all there is to the whole adventure? And that is calledsanity. And made a virtue—to lock one in. You never workedwith things that grow! Things that take a sporting chance—gomad—that sanity mayn't lock them in—from lifeuntouched—from life—that waits, (she turns towardthe inner room) Breath of Life. (she goes in there)
HARRY: Oh, I wish Claire wouldn't be strange like that,(helplessly) What is it? What's the matter?
DICK: It's merely the excess of a particularly richtemperament.
HARRY: But it's growing on her. I sometimes wonder if all this(indicating the place around him) is a good thing. It wouldbe all right if she'd just do what she did in thebeginning—make the flowers as good as possible of their kind.That's an awfully nice thing for a woman to do—raise flowers.But there's something about this—changing things into otherthings—putting things together and making queer newthings—this—
DICK: Creating?
HARRY: Give it any name you want it to have—it'sunsettling for a woman. They say Claire's a shark at it, but what'sthe good of it, if it gets her? What is the good of it, anyway?Suppose we can produce new things. Lord—look at the one oneswe've got. (looks outside; turns back) Heavens, what a noisethe wind does make around this place, (but now it is not all thewind, but TOM EDGEWORTHY, who is trying to let himself in atthe locked door, their backs are to him) I want my egg.You can't eat an egg without salt. I must say I don't get Clairelately. I'd like to have Charlie Emmons see her—he's fixed upa lot of people shot to pieces in the war. Claire needs somethingto tone her nerves up. You think it would irritate her?
DICK: She'd probably get no little entertainment out of it.
HARRY: Yes, dog-gone her, she would. (TOM now takes moreheroic measures to make himself heard at the door)Funny—how the wind can fool you. Now by not looking around Icould imagine—why, I could imagine anything. Funny, isn't it,about imagination? And Claire says I haven't got any!
DICK: It would make an amusing drawing—what the wind makesyou think is there. (first makes forms with his hands, thenlevelling the soil prepared by ANTHONY, traces lines withhis finger) Yes, really—quite jolly.
(TOM, after a moment of peering in at them,smiles, goes away.)
HARRY: You're another one of the queer ducks, aren't you? Comenow—give me the dirt. Have you queer ones really gotanything—or do you just put it over on us that you have?
DICK: (smiles, draws on) Not saying anything, eh? Well, Iguess you're wise there. If you keep mum—how are we going toprove there's nothing there?
DICK: I don't keep mum. I draw.
HARRY: Lines that don't make anything—how can they tellyou anything? Well, all I ask is, don't make Claire queer. Claire'sa first water good sport—really, so don't encourage her to bequeer.
DICK: Trouble is, if you're queer enough to be amusing, itmight—open the door to queerness.
HARRY: Now don't say things like that to Claire.
DICK: I don't have to.
HARRY: Then you think she's queer, do you? Queer as youare, you think she's queer. I would like to have Dr Emmons comeout. (after a moment of silently watching DICK, who ishaving a good time with his drawing) You know, frankly, I doubtif you're a good influence for Claire. (DICK lifts his head everso slightly) Oh, I don't worry a bit about—things ahusband might worry about. I suppose an intellectualwoman—and for all Claire's hate of her ancestors, she's gotthe bug herself. Why, she has times of boring into things until shedoesn't know you're there. What do you think I caught her doing theother day? Reading Latin. Well—a woman that reads Latinneedn't worry a husband much.
DICK: They said a good deal in Latin.
HARRY: But I was saying, I suppose a woman who lives a good dealin her mind never does have much—well, what you might callpassion, (uses the word as if it shouldn't be used. Browsknitted, is looking ahead, does not see DICK's face. Turningto him with a laugh) I suppose you know pretty much all thereis to know about women?
DICK: Perhaps one or two details have escaped me.
HARRY: Well, for that matter, you might know all there is toknow about women and not know much about Claire. But now about(does not want to say passion again)—oh,feeling—Claire has a certain—well, a certain—
DICK: Irony?
HARRY: Which is really more—more—
DICK: More fetching, perhaps.
HARRY: Yes! Than the thing itself. But of course—youwouldn't have much of a thing that you have irony about.
DICK: Oh—wouldn't you! I mean—a man might.
HARRY: I'd like to talk to Edgeworth about Claire. But it's noteasy to talk to Tom about Claire—or to Claire about Tom.
DICK: (alert) They're very old friends, aren't they?
HARRY: Why—yes, they are. Though they've not been togethermuch of late years, Edgeworthy always going to the ends of theearth to—meditate about something. I must say I don't get it.If you have a place—that's the place for you to be. And hedid have a place—best kind of family connections, and it wasa very good business his father left him. Publishingbusiness—in good shape, too, when old Edgeworthy died. Iwouldn't call Tom a great success in life—but Claire doeslisten to what he says.
DICK: Yes, I've noticed that.
HARRY: So, I'd like to get him to tell her to quit this queerbusiness of making things grow that never grew before.
DICK: But are you sure that's what he would tell her? Isn't hein the same business himself?
HARRY: Why, he doesn't raise anything.
(TOM is again at the door.)
DICK: Anyway, I think he might have some idea that we can't verywell reach each other.
HARRY: Damn nonsense. What have we got intelligence for?
DICK: To let each other alone, I suppose. Only we haven't enoughto do it.
(TOM is now knocking on the door with arevolver. HARRY half turns, decides to be too intelligent toturn.)
HARRY: Don't tell me I'm getting nerves. But the way some of youpeople talk is enough to make even an aviator jumpy. Can't reacheach other! Then we're fools. If I'm here and you're there, whycan't we reach each other?
DICK: Because I am I and you are you.
HARRY: No wonder your drawing's queer. A man who can't reachanother man—(TOM here reaches them by pointing therevolver in the air and firing it. DICK digs his hand intothe dirt. HARRY jumps to one side, fearfully looksaround. TOM, with a pleased smile to see he at last hastheir attention, moves the handle to indicate he would be glad tocome in.)
HARRY: Why—it's Tom! What the—? (going to thedoor) He's locked out. And Claire's got the key. (goes tothe inner door, tries it) And she's locked in! (trying tosee her in there) Claire! Claire! (returning to the outerdoor) Claire's got the key—and I can't get to Claire.(makes a futile attempt at getting the door open without a key,goes back to inner door—peers, pounds) Claire! Are youthere? Didn't you hear the revolver? Has she gone down the cellar?(tries the trap-door) Bolted! Well, I love the way she keepspeople locked out!
DICK: And in.
HARRY: (getting angry, shouting at the trap-door) Didn'tyou hear the revolver? (going to TOM) Awfully sorry, oldman, but—(in astonishment to DICK) He can't hear me.(TOM, knocking with the revolver to get their attention, makes agesture of inquiry with it) No—no—no! Is he askingif he shall shoot himself? (shaking his head violently) Oh,no—no! Um—um!
DICK: Hardly seems a man would shoot himself because he can'tget to his breakfast.
HARRY: I'm coming to believe people would do anything! (TOMis making another inquiry with the revolver) No! not here.Don't shoot yourself. (trying hard to get the word through)Shoot yourself. I mean—don't, (petulantly toDICK) It's ridiculous that you can't make a man understand you whenhe looks right at you like that. (turning back to TOM) Readmy lips. Lips. I'm saying—Oh damn. Where is Claire? Allright—I'll explain it with motions. We wanted the salt ...(going over it to himself) and Claire wouldn't let us go outfor it on account of the temperature. Salt. Temperature. (takeshis egg-cup to the door, violent motion of shaking in salt)But—no (shakes his head) No salt. (he then takesthe thermometer, a flower pot, holds them up to TOM) On accountof the temperature. Tem-per-a—(TOM is not getting it)Oh—well, what can you do when a man don't get a thing?(TOM seems to be preparing the revolver for action. HARRYpounds on the inner door) Claire! Do you want Tom to shoothimself?
(As he looks in there, the trap-door lifts, andCLAIRE comes half-way up.)
CLAIRE: Why, what is Tom doing out there, with a revolver?
HARRY: He is about to shoot himself because you've locked himout from his breakfast.
CLAIRE: He must know more interesting ways of destroyinghimself. (bowing to TOM) Good morning. (from his side ofthe glass TOM bows and smiles back) Isn't itstrange—our being in here—and he being out there?
HARRY: Claire, have you no ideas of hospitality? Let him in!
CLAIRE: In? Perhaps that isn't hospitality.
HARRY: Well, whatever hospitality is, what is out there issnow—and wind—and our guest—who was asked to comehere for his breakfast. To think a man has to suchthings.
CLAIRE: I'm going to let him in. Though I like his looks outthere. (she takes the key from her pocket)
HARRY: Thank heaven the door's coming open. Somebody can go forsalt, and we can have our eggs.
CLAIRE: And open the door again—to let the salt in? No. Ifyou insist on salt, tell Tom now to go back and get it. It's astormy morning and there'll be just one opening of the door.
HARRY: How can we tell him what we can't make him hear? And whydoes he think we're holding this conversation instead of lettinghim in?
CLAIRE: It would be interesting to know. I wonder if he'll tellus?
HARRY: Claire! Is this any time to wonder anything?
CLAIRE: Give up the idea of salt for your egg and I'll let himin. (holds up the key to TOM to indicate that for her partshe is quite ready to let him in)
HARRY: I want my egg!
CLAIRE: Then ask him to bring the salt. It's quite simple.
(HARRY goes through another pantomime with theegg-cup and the missing shaker. CLAIRE, still standinghalf-way down cellar, sneezes. HARRY, growing all the whileless amiable, explains with thermometer and flower-pot that therecan only be one opening of the door. TOM looks interested,but unenlightened. But suddenly he smiles, nods, vanishes.)
HARRY: Well, thank heaven (exhausted) that's over.
CLAIRE: (sitting on the top step) It was all so queer. Helocked out on his side of the door. You locked in on yours. Lookingright at each other and—
HARRY: (in mockery) And me trying to tell him to kindlyfetch the salt!
CLAIRE: Yes.
HARRY: (to DICK) Well, I didn't do so bad a job, did I?Quite an idea, explaining our situation with the thermometer andthe flower-pot. That was really an apology for keeping him outthere. Heaven knows—some explanation was in order, (he iswatching, and sees TOM coming) Now there he is, Claire.And probably pretty well fed up with the weather.
(CLAIRE goes to the door, stops before it. Sheand TOM look at each other through the glass. Then she letshim in.)
TOM: And now I am in. For a time it seemed I was not to be in.But after I got the idea that you were keeping me out there to seeif I could get the idea—it would be too humiliating for awall of glass to keep one from understanding. (taking it fromhis pocket) So there's the other thermometer. Where do you wantit? (CLAIRE takes it)
CLAIRE: And where's the pepper?
TOM: (putting it on the table) And here's the pepper.
HARRY: Pepper?
TOM: When Claire sneezed I knew—
CLAIRE: Yes, I knew if I sneezed you would bring the pepper.
TOM: Funny how one always remembers the salt, but the peppergets overlooked in preparations. And what is an egg withoutpepper?
HARRY: (nastily) There's your egg, Edgeworth.(pointing to it on the floor) Claire decided it would be agood idea to smash everything, so she began with your egg.
TOM: (looking at his egg) The idea of smashing everythingis really more intriguing than an egg.
HARRY: Nice that you feel that way about it.
CLAIRE: (giving TOM his coffee) You want to hearsomething amusing? I married Harry because I thought he would smashsomething.
HARRY: Well, that was an error in judgment.
CLAIRE: I'm such a naive trusting person (HARRYlaughs—CLAIRE gives him a surprised look, continuessimply). Such a guileless soul that I thought flying would dosomething to a man. But it didn't take us out. We just took itin.
TOM: It's only our own spirit can take us out.
HARRY: Whatever you mean by out.
CLAIRE: (after looking intently at TOM, andconsidering it) But our own spirit is not something on theloose. Mine isn't. It has something to do with what I do. To fly.To be free in air. To look from above on the world of all my days.Be where man has never been! Yes—wouldn't you think thespirit could get the idea? The earth grows smaller. I am leaving.What are they—running around down there? Why do they runaround down there? Houses? Houses are funny lines and down-goingslants—houses are vanishing slants. I am alone. Can I breathethis rarer air? Shall I go higher? Shall I go too high? I am loose.I am out. But no; man flew, and returned to earth the man who leftit.
HARRY: And jolly well likely not to have returned at all if he'dhad those flighty notions while operating a machine.
CLAIRE: Oh, Harry! (not lightly asked) Can't you see itwould be better not to have returned than to return the man wholeft it?
HARRY: I have some regard for human life.
CLAIRE: Why, no—I am the one who has the regard for humanlife, (more lightly) That was why I swiftly divorced mystick-in-the-mud artist and married—the man of flight. But Imerely passed from a stick-in-the-mud artist to a—
DICK: Stick-in-the-air aviator?
HARRY: Speaking of your stick-in-the-mud artist, as youromantically call your first blunder, isn't his daughter—andyours—due here to-day?
CLAIRE: I knew something was disturbing me. Elizabeth. Adaughter is being delivered unto me this morning. I have a feelingit will be more painful than the original delivery. She has been,as they quaintly say, educated; prepared for her place in life.
HARRY: And fortunately Claire has a sister who is willing togive her young niece that place.
CLAIRE: The idea of giving anyone a place in life.
HARRY: Yes! The very idea!
CLAIRE: Yes! (as often, the mocking thing gives trueexpression to what lies sombrely in her) The war. There wasanother gorgeous chance.
HARRY: Chance for what? I call you, Claire. I ask you to saywhat you mean.
CLAIRE: I don't know—precisely. If I did—there'd beno use saying it. (at HARRY's impatient exclamation sheturns to TOM)
TOM: (nodding) The only thing left worth saying is thething we can't say.
HARRY: Help!
CLAIRE: Yes. But the war didn't help. Oh, it was a stunningchance! But fast as we could—scuttled right back to the trimlittle thing we'd been shocked out of.
HARRY: You bet we did—showing our good sense.
CLAIRE: Showing our incapacity—for madness.
HARRY: Oh, come now, Claire—snap out of it. You're notreally trying to say that capacity for madness is a good thing tohave?
CLAIRE: (in simple surprise) Why yes, of course.
DICK: But I should say the war did leave enough madness to giveyou a gleam of hope.
CLAIRE: Not the madness that—breaks through. And itwas—a stunning chance! Mankind massed to kill. We havefailed. We are through. We will destroy. Break this up—itcan't go farther. In the air above—in the sea below—itis to kill! All we had thought we were—we aren't. We wereshut in with what wasn't so. Is there one ounce of energy has notgone to this killing? Is there one love not torn in two? Throw itin! Now? Ready? Break up. Push. Harder. Break up. Andthen—and then—But we didn't say—'And then—'The spirit didn't take the tip.
HARRY: Claire! Come now (looking to the others forhelp)—let's talk of something else.
CLAIRE: Plants do it. The big leap—it's called. Explodetheir species—because something in them knows they've gone asfar as they can go. Something in them knows they're shut in to justthat. So—go mad—that life may not be prisoned. Breakthemselves up into crazy things—into lesser things, and fromthe pieces—may come one sliver of life with vitality to findthe future. How beautiful. How brave.
TOM: (as if he would call her from too far—or would lether know he has gone with her) Claire!
CLAIRE: (her eyes turning to him) Why should we mindlying under the earth? We who have no such initiative—noproud madness? Why think it death to lie under life soflexible—so ruthless and ever-renewing?
ANTHONY: (from the door of the inner room) MissClaire?
CLAIRE: (after an instant) Yes? (she goes with him, asthey disappear his voice heard,'show me now ... want thoseviolets bedded')
HARRY: Oh, this has got to stop. I've got to—put astop to it some way. Why, Claire used to be the best sport a manever played around with. I can't stand it to see her gettinghysterical.
TOM: That was not hysterical.
HARRY: What was it then—I want to know?
TOM: It was—a look.
HARRY: Oh, I might have known I'd get no help from either ofyou. Even you, Edgeworthy—much as she thinks of you—andfine sort as I've no doubt you are, you're doing Claire nogood—encouraging her in these queer ways.
TOM: I couldn't change Claire if I would.
HARRY: And wouldn't if you could.
TOM: No. But you don't have to worry about me. I'm going away ina day or two. And I shall not be back.
HARRY: Trouble with you is, it makes little difference whetheryou're here or away. Just the fact of your existence does encourageClaire in this—this way she's going.
TOM: (with a smile) But you wouldn't ask me to go so faras to stop my existence? Though I would do that for Claire—ifit were the way to help her.
HARRY: By Jove, you say that as if you meant it.
TOM: Do you think I would say anything about Claire I didn'tmean?
HARRY: You think a lot of her, don't you? (TOM nods) Youdon't mean (a laugh letting him say it)—thatyou're—in love with Claire!
TOM: In love? Oh, that's much too easy. Certainly I do loveClaire.
HARRY: Well, you're a cool one!
TOM: Let her be herself. Can't you see she's troubled?
HARRY: Well, what is there to trouble Claire? Now I ask you. Itseems to me she has everything.
TOM: She's left so—open. Too exposed, (as HARRYmoves impatiently) Please don't be annoyed with me. I'mdoing my best at saying it. You see Claire isn't hardened into oneof those forms she talks about. She's too—aware. Alwayspulled toward what could be—tormented by the lostadventure.
HARRY: Well, there's danger in all that. Of course there'sdanger.
TOM: But you can't help that.
HARRY: Claire was the best fun a woman could be. Is yet—attimes.
TOM: Let her be—at times. As much as she can and will. Shedoes need that. Don't keep her from it by making her feel you'reholding her in it. Above all, don't try to stop what she's doinghere. If she can do it with plants, perhaps she won't have to do itwith herself.
HARRY: Do what?
TOM: (low, after a pause) Break up what exists. Open thedoor to destruction in the hope of—a door on the far side ofdestruction.
HARRY: Well, you give me the willies, (moves around inirritation, troubled. To ANTHONY, who is passing throughwith a sprayer) Anthony, have any arrangements been made aboutMiss Claire's daughter?
ANTHONY: I haven't heard of any arrangements.
HARRY: Well, she'll have to have some heat in her room. We can'tall live out here.
ANTHONY: Indeed you cannot. It is not good for the plants.
HARRY: I'm going where I can smoke, (goes out)
DICK: (lightly, but fascinated by the idea) You thinkthere is a door on the—hinter side of destruction?
TOM: How can one tell—where a door may be? One thing Iwant to say to you—for it is about you. (regards DICKand not with his usual impersonal contemplation) I don'tthink Claire should have—any door closed to her.(pause) You know, I think, what I mean. And perhaps you canguess how it hurts to say it. Whether it's—mere escapewithin,—rather shameful escape within, or the wild hope ofthat door through, it's—(suddenly all human) Be goodto her! (after a difficult moment, smiles) Going away forever is like dying, so one can say things.
DICK: Why do you do it—go away for ever?
TOM: I haven't succeeded here.
DICK: But you've tried the going away before.
TOM: Never knowing I would not come back. So that wasn't goingaway. My hope is that this will be like looking at life fromoutside life.
DICK: But then you'll not be in it.
TOM: I haven't been able to look at it while in it.
DICK: Isn't it more important to be in it than to look atit?
TOM: Not what I mean by look.
DICK: It's hard for me to conceive of—loving Claire andgoing away from her for ever.
TOM: Perhaps it's harder to do than to conceive of.
DICK: Then why do it?
TOM: It's my only way of keeping her.
DICK: I'm afraid I'm like Harry now. I don't get you.
TOM: I suppose not. Your way is different, (with calm, withsadness—not with malice) But I shall have her longer. Andfrom deeper.
DICK: I know that.
TOM: Though I miss much. Much, (the buzzer. TOM looksaround to see if anyone is coming to answer it, then goes to thephone) Yes?... I'll see if I can get her. (to DICK)Claire's daughter has arrived, (looking in the innerroom—returns to phone) I don't see her. (catching aglimpse of ANTHONY off right) Oh, Anthony, where's Miss Claire?Her daughter has arrived.
ANTHONY: She's working at something very important in herexperiments.
DICK: But isn't her daughter one of her experiments?
ANTHONY: (after a baffled moment) Her daughter isfinished.
TOM: (at the phone) Sorry—but I can't get toClaire. She appears to have gone below. (ANTHONY closes thetrap-door) I did speak to Anthony, but he says that Claire isworking at one of her experiments and that her daughter isfinished. I don't know how to make her hear—I took therevolver back to the house. Anyway you will remember Claire doesn'tanswer the revolver. I hate to reach Claire when she doesn't wantto be reached. Why, of course—a daughter is very important,but oh, that's too bad. (putting down the receiver) He saysthe girl's feelings are hurt. Isn't that annoying? (gingerlypounds on the trap-door. Then with the other hand. Waits.ANTHONY has a gentle smile for the gentle tapping—nodsapproval as, TOM returns to the phone) She doesn't comeup. Indeed I did—with both fists—Sorry.
ANTHONY: Please, you won't try again to disturb Miss Claire,will you?
DICK: Her daughter is here, Anthony. She hasn't seen herdaughter for a year.
ANTHONY: Well, if she got along without a mother for ayear—(goes back to his work)
DICK: (smiling after ANTHONY) Plants are queer. Perhapsit's safer to do it with pencil (regardsTOM)—or with pure thought. Things that grow in theearth—
TOM: (nodding) I suppose because we grew in theearth.
DICK: I'm always shocked to find myself in agreement with Harry,but I too am worried about Claire—and this, (looking atthe plants)
TOM: It's her best chance.
DICK: Don't you hate to go away to India—forever—leaving Claire's future uncertain?
TOM: You're cruel now. And you knew that you were beingcruel.
DICK: Yes, I like the lines of your face when you suffer.
TOM: The lines of yours when you're causing suffering—Idon't like them.
DICK: Perhaps that's your limitation.
TOM: I grant you it may be. (They are silent) I had anodd feeling that you and I sat here once before, long ago, and thatwe were plants. And you were a beautiful plant, and I—I was avery ugly plant. I confess it surprised me—finding myself sougly a plant.
(A young girl is seen outside. HARRY getsthe door open for her and brings ELIZABETH in.)
HARRY: There's heat here. And two of your mother's friends. MrDemming—Richard Demming—the artist—and I thinkyou and Mr Edgeworthy are old friends.
(ELIZABETH comes forward. She is the creditableyoung American—well built, poised, 'cultivated', so sound anexpression of the usual as to be able to meet the world withassurance—assurance which training has made rather graceful.She is about seventeen—and mature. You feel solid thingsbehind her.)
TOM: I knew you when you were a baby. You used to kick a greatdeal then.
ELIZABETH: (laughing, with ease) And scream, I haven't adoubt. But I've stopped that. One does, doesn't one? And it was youwho gave me the idol.
TOM: Proselytizing, I'm afraid.
ELIZABETH: I beg—? Oh—yes (laughingcordially) I see. (she doesn't) I dressed the idol up inmy doll's clothes. They fitted perfectly—the idol was justthe size of my doll Ailine. But mother didn't like the idol thatway, and tore the clothes getting them off. (to HARRY,after looking around) Is mother here?
HARRY: (crossly) Yes, she's here. Of course she's here.And she must know you're here, (after looking in the inner roomhe goes to the trap-door and makes a great noise)
ELIZABETH: Oh—please. Really—it doesn't makethe least difference.
HARRY: Well, all I can say is, your manners are better than yourmother's.
ELIZABETH: But you see I don't do anything interesting, so Ihave to have good manners. (lightly, but leaving the impressionthere is a certain superiority in not doing anything interesting.Turning cordially to DICK) My father was an artist.
DICK: Yes, I know.
ELIZABETH: He was a portrait painter. Do you do portraits?
DICK: Well, not the kind people buy.
ELIZABETH: They bought father's.
DICK: Yes, I know he did that kind.
HARRY: (still irritated) Why, you don't do portraits.
DICK: I did one of you the other day. You thought it was amilk-can.
ELIZABETH: (laughing delightedly) No? Not really? Did youthink—How could you think—(as HARRY does notjoin the laugh) Oh, I beg your pardon. I—Does mother growbeautiful roses now?
HARRY: No, she does not.
(The trap-door begins to move. CLAIRE'shead appears.)
ELIZABETH: Mother! It's been so long—(she tries toovercome the difficulties and embrace her mother)
CLAIRE: (protecting a box she has) Careful, Elizabeth. Wemustn't upset the lice.
ELIZABETH: (retreating) Lice? (but quickly equal evento lice) Oh—yes. You take it—them—off plants,don't you?
CLAIRE: I'm putting them on certain plants.
ELIZABETH: (weakly) Oh, I thought you took them off.
CLAIRE: (calling) Anthony! (he comes) The lice.(he takes them from her) (CLAIRE, who has not fullyascended, looks at ELIZABETH, hesitates, then suddenlystarts back down the stairs.)
HARRY: (outraged) Claire! (slowly shere-ascends—sits on the top step. After a long pause in whichhe has waited for CLAIRE to open a conversation with herdaughter.) Well, and what have you been doing at school allthis time?
ELIZABETH: Oh—studying.
CLAIRE: Studying what?
ELIZABETH: Why—the things one studies, mother.
CLAIRE: Oh! The things one studies. (looks down cellaragain)
DICK: (after another wait) And what have you been doingbesides studying?
ELIZABETH: Oh—the things one does. Tennis and skating anddancing and—
CLAIRE: The things one does.
ELIZABETH: Yes. All the things. The—the things one does.Though I haven't been in school these last few months, you know.Miss Lane took us to Europe.
TOM: And how did you like Europe?
ELIZABETH: (capably) Oh, I thought it was awfullyamusing. All the girls were quite mad about Europe. Of course, I'mglad I'm an American.
CLAIRE: Why?
ELIZABETH: (laughing) Why—mother! Of course one isglad one is an American. All the girls—
CLAIRE: (turning away) O—h! (a moan under thebreath)
ELIZABETH: Why, mother—aren't you well?
HARRY: Your mother has been working pretty hard at all this.
ELIZABETH: Oh, I do so want to know all about it? Perhaps I canhelp you! I think it's just awfully amusing that you're doingsomething. One does nowadays, doesn't one?—if you know what Imean. It was the war, wasn't it, made it the thing to dosomething?
DICK: (slyly) And you thought, Claire, that the war waslost.
ELIZABETH: The war? Lost! (her capable laugh)Fancy our losing a war! Miss Lane says we should givethanks. She says we should each do some expressivething—you know what I mean? And that this is thekeynote of the age. Of course, one's own kind of thing. Likemother—growing flowers.
CLAIRE: You think that is one's own kind of thing?
ELIZABETH: Why, of course I do, mother. And so does Miss Lane.All the girls—
CLAIRE: (shaking her head as if to get something out)S-hoo.
ELIZABETH: What is it, mother?
CLAIRE: A fly shut up in my ear—'All the girls!'
ELIZABETH: (laughing) Mother was always so amusing. Sodifferent—if you know what I mean. Vacations I'velived mostly with Aunt Adelaide, you know.
CLAIRE: My sister who is fitted to rear children.
HARRY: Well, somebody has to do it.
ELIZABETH: And I do love Aunt Adelaide, but I think its going tobe awfully amusing to be around with mother now—and help herwith her work. Help do some useful beautiful thing.
CLAIRE: I am not doing any useful beautiful thing.
ELIZABETH: Oh, but you are, mother. Of course you are. Miss Lanesays so. She says it is your splendid heritage gives you thisimpulse to do a beautiful thing for the race. She says you aredoing in your way what the great teachers and preachers behind youdid in theirs.
CLAIRE: (who is good for little more) Well, all I can sayis, Miss Lane is stung.
ELIZABETH: Mother! What a thing to say of Miss Lane. (fromthis slipping into more of a little girl manner) Oh, she gaveme a spiel one day about living up to the men I come from.
(CLAIRE turns and regards her daughter.)
CLAIRE: You'll do it, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: Well, I don't know. Quite a job, I'll say. Of course,I'd have to do it in my way. I'm not going to teach or preach or bea stuffy person. But now that—(she here becomes theproduct of a superior school) values have shifted and suchsensitive new things have been liberated in the world—
CLAIRE: (low) Don't use those words.
ELIZABETH: Why—why not?
CLAIRE: Because you don't know what they mean.
ELIZABETH: Why, of course I know what they mean!
CLAIRE: (turning away) You're—stepping on theplants.
HARRY: (hastily) Your mother has been working awfullyhard at all this.
ELIZABETH: Well, now that I'm here you'll let me help you, won'tyou, mother?
CLAIRE: (trying for control) Youneedn't—bother.
ELIZABETH: But I want to. Help add to the wealth of theworld.
CLAIRE: Will you please get it out of your head that I am addingto the wealth of the world!
ELIZABETH: But, mother—of course you are. To produce a newand better kind of plant—
CLAIRE: They may be new. I don't give a damn whether they'rebetter.
ELIZABETH: But—but what are they then?
CLAIRE: (as if choked out of her) They're different.
ELIZABETH: (thinks a minute, then laughs triumphantly)But what's the use of making them different if they aren'tbetter?
HARRY: A good square question, Claire. Why don't you answerit?
CLAIRE: I don't have to answer it.
HARRY: Why not give the girl a fair show? You never have, youknow. Since she's interested, why not tell her what it is you'redoing?
CLAIRE: She is not interested.
ELIZABETH: But I am, mother. Indeed I am. I do want awfully tounderstand what you are doing, and help you.
CLAIRE: You can't help me, Elizabeth.
HARRY: Why not let her try?
CLAIRE: Why do you ask me to do that? This is my own thing. Whydo you make me feel I should—(goes to ELIZABETH) Iwill be good to you, Elizabeth. We'll go around together. I haven'tdone it, but—you'll see. We'll do gay things. I'll have a lotof beaus around for you. Anything else. Not—this is—Notthis.
ELIZABETH: As you like, mother, of course. I just would havebeen so glad to—to share the thing that interests you.(hurt borne with good breeding and a smile)
HARRY: Claire! (which says, 'How can you?')
CLAIRE: (who is looking at ELIZABETH) Yes, I willtry.
TOM: I don't think so. As Claire says—anything else.
ELIZABETH: Why, of course—I don't at all want tointrude.
HARRY: It'll do Claire good to take someone in. To get down tobrass tacks and actually say what she's driving at.
CLAIRE: Oh—Harry. But yes—I will try.(does try, but no words come. Laughs) When you come to sayit it's not—One would rather not nail it to a cross ofwords—(laughs again) with brass tacks.
HARRY: (affectionately) But I want to see you put thingsinto words, Claire, and realize just where you are.
CLAIRE: (oddly) You think that's a—good idea?
ELIZABETH: (in her manner of holding the world capably in herhands) Now let's talk of something else. I hadn't the leastidea of making mother feel badly.
CLAIRE: (desperately) No, we'll go on. Though I don'tknow—where we'll end. I can't answer for that. Theseplants—(beginning flounderingly) Perhaps they are lessbeautiful—less sound—than the plants from which theydiverged. But they have found—otherness, (laughs a littleshrilly) If you know—what I mean.
TOM: Claire—stop this! (To HARRY) This iswrong.
CLAIRE: (excitedly) No; I'm going on. They have beenshocked out of what they were—into something they were not;they've broken from the forms in which they found themselves. Theyare alien. Outside. That's it, outside; if you—know what Imean.
ELIZABETH: (not shocked from what she is) But of course,the object of it all is to make them better plants. Otherwise, whatwould be the sense of doing it?
CLAIRE: (not reached by ELIZABETH) Outthere—(giving it with her hands) lies all that's notbeen touched—lies life that waits. Back here—the oldpattern, done again, again and again. So long done it doesn't evenknow itself for a pattern—in immensity. But this—hasinvaded. Crept a little way into—what wasn't. Strange linesin life unused. And when you make a pattern new you know apattern's made with life. And then you know that anything maybe—if only you know how to reach it. (this has taken form,not easily, but with great struggle between feeling andwords)
HARRY: (cordially) Now I begin to get you, Claire. Inever knew before why you called it the Edge Vine.
CLAIRE: I should destroy the Edge Vine. It isn't—over theedge. It's running, back to—'all the girls'. It's a littleafraid of Miss Lane, (looking sombrely at it) You are out,but you are not alive.
ELIZABETH: Why, it looks all right, mother.
CLAIRE: Didn't carry life with it from the life it left.Dick—you know what I mean. At least you ought to. (herruthless way of not letting anyone's feelings stand in the way oftruth) Then destroy it for me! It's hard to do it—withthe hands that made it.
DICK: But what's the point in destroying it, Claire?
CLAIRE: (impatiently) I've told you. It cannotcreate.
DICK: But you say you can go on producing it, and it'sinteresting in form.
CLAIRE: And you think I'll stop with that? Be shut in—withdifferent life—that can't creep on? (after trying to putdestroying hands upon it) It's hard to—get past whatwe've done. Our own dead things—block the way.
TOM: But you're doing it this next time, Claire, (nodding tothe inner room.) In there!
CLAIRE: (turning to that room) I'm not sure.
TOM: But you told me Breath of Life has already produced itself.Doesn't that show it has brought life from the life it left?
CLAIRE: But timidly, rather—wistfully. A little homesick.If it is less sure this time, then it is going back to—MissLane. But if the pattern's clearer now, then it has made friends oflife that waits. I'll know to-morrow.
ELIZABETH: You know, something tells me this iswrong.
CLAIRE: The hymn-singing ancestors are tuning up.
ELIZABETH: I don't know what you mean by that, motherbut—
CLAIRE: But we will now sing, 'Nearer, my God, to Thee: Nearerto—'
ELIZABETH: (laughingly breaking in) Well, I don't care.Of course you can make fun at me, but something does tell me thisis wrong. To do what—what—
DICK: What God did?
ELIZABETH: Well—yes. Unless you do it to make thembetter—to do it just to do it—that doesn't seemright to me.
CLAIRE: (roughly) 'Right to you!' And that's all you knowof adventure—and of anguish. Do you know it isyou—world of which you're so true a flower—makes mehave to leave? You're there to hold the door shut! Because you'reyoung and of a gayer world, you think I can't seethem—those old men? Do you know why you're so sure ofyourself? Because you can't feel. Can't feel—thelimitless—out there—a sea just over the hill. I willnot stay with you! (buries her hands in the earth around theEdge Vine. But suddenly steps back from it as she had fromELIZABETH) And I will not stay with you! (grasps it as we graspwhat we would kill, is trying to pull it up. They all step forwardin horror. ANTHONY is drawn in by this harm to the plant)
ANTHONY: Miss Claire! Miss Claire! The work of years!
CLAIRE: May only make a prison! (struggling with HARRY,who is trying to stop her) You think I too will die on theedge? (she has thrown him away, is now struggling with thevine) Why did I make you? To get past you! (as she twistsit) Oh yes, I know you have thorns! The Edge Vine should havethorns, (with a long tremendous pull for deep roots, she has itup. As she holds the torn roots) Oh, I have loved you so! Youtook me where I hadn't been.
ELIZABETH: (who has been looking on with a certain practicalhorror) Well, I'd say it would be better not to go there!
CLAIRE: Now I know what you are for! (flings her arm back tostrike ELIZABETH with the Edge Vine)
HARRY: (wresting it from her) Claire! Are you mad?
CLAIRE: No, I'm not mad. I'm—too sane! (pointing toELIZABETH—and the words come from mighty roots) Tothink that object ever moved my belly and sucked my breast!(ELIZABETH hides her face as if struck)
HARRY: (going to ELIZABETH, turning to CLAIRE)This is atrocious! You're cruel.
(He leads ELIZABETH to the door and out.After an irresolute moment in which he looks from CLAIREto TOM, DICK follows. ANTHONY cannot bear to go.He stoops to take the Edge Vine from the floor. CLAIRE'sgesture stops him. He goes into the inner room.)
CLAIRE: (kicking the Edge Vine out of her way, drawing deepbreaths, smiling) O-h. How good I feel! Light! (a movementas if she could fly) Read me something, Tom dear. Or saysomething pleasant—about God. But be very careful what yousay about him! I have a feeling—he's not far off.
(CURTAIN)
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